You see, it’s not ephemeral anymore. The secrets have been revealed. The mysteries have been solved. Thus, as I leaned forward and looked through the center of his left pupil at his retina, I thought, “My mind grasps,” and then I said, as an aside, that “Joseph, ‘the Cat from Hell,’ is actually Иосиф, ‘кот от ада,’ in disguise.”
Needless to say, the audience was rendered agog by his reaction to my intelligence gathering prowess. Of course, it would only be “needless to say” if no one was aware of his agog-rendering reaction. This seems to suggest that the speaker is speaking the obvious—but it is obvious only to the speaker and, perhaps, to an additional inner-circle of similarly elite, ultra-aware minds. It goes without saying, therefore, that no description of his reaction by me is unnecessary for you.
The unexpected implosion—when an instinctive explosion was all but assurred by genetic default—was the only curiosity, therefore, because it possessed random-ized agog-enducing qualities. Clearly, no description need be made detailing the audio and/or video of his reaction.
I said, “Hey!” into The Wormhole that was formed in the top of his neck with a THOONK! and heard only Echoes (1971) [by Pink Floyd] and I thought to myself, “This is getting weird.”
[INTERMISSION]
He said, “All right, you’ve tolerated my faux surrealism long enough, I’m going to come clean.”
Deadpan, I responded by whispering, “Yeah. Right,” and then I began to whistle the Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, Op. 27, No. 2, by Ludwig van Beethoven, popularly known as the Moonlight Sonata (1801).
He said, “I’ve been addicted to ephemera for at least four centuries.”
Between Parts I and II, I asked, “Is that why you smashed the guitar?”
He said, “No.”
I wrote, “So, what is your point?” on a piece of note paper and slid it across my oaken desk toward him.
He said, “Point?” and went on an erudite, verbal tirade replete with high-resolution, mental images of “chains and padded cells.”
[INTERMISSION]
[Backstage]
[Backstage]
Grasping his cranium with both hands, Vincent Price said, “I can’t bear it! Playing to an empty theatre! Who is responsible for this outrage!?! This AGONY!!??!!”
As if on cue, the enraged mob which surrounded the theatre cut the main power line with a chain saw. Empowered by the impenetrable darkness, Brigitte Helm (flashing back to Metropolis [1927]) began dancing her dual roles as Maria and as the Maschinenmensch across the vast oaken stage. And, even then, all eyes were upon her.
Off stage, someone said, “The orchestra sneaked out.”
On stage, someone said, “Like you can see.”
Off stage, someone said, “I have a flashlight, foo…..” followed by blood-curdling gurgles and Vincent Price saying, “Hold the light on me, you cretin!”
The entire cast froze in their poses and held their breath as the backdrops swang on their tethers, wooshing back and forth like lethal pendulums. Innumerable invisible tear gas cannisters rolled randomly on the oaken stage, swirling like galaxies, spewing nasty fumes. Vincent Price had donned a WWII vintage gas mask and was now crouching with his back in a corner; he was now holding the light on himself and his bulging, darting eyes.
A loud sound, which resembled ZNERT! was accompanied by the restoration of power to the stage lighting. Many of the cast stood and began, instinctively, to perform, at which time they were sliced like bacon by the pendulous, finely honed backdrops. Simultaneously, SWAT teams entered through each exit. Many had a chance to scream, most did not. An outstretched arm whose hand clenched a straight jacket fell, disembodied, to the oaken boards and twitched twice.
[CURTAIN]